


Selection

by days4daisy



Category: Dark Matter (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Pre-Series, Season/Series 01, Yuletide, pre-amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 20:13:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5469518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Heh. Portia was right, you're more than a sweet face." Marcus stretches. "So, what's our play, Corso? You're the tactics guy, right?"</p><p>Yeah, about that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Selection

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Amethyst Shard (AmethystShard)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmethystShard/gifts).



> This fic is pre-series, but there are heavy spoilers for all of Season 1.

Derrick opens his eyes.

He's on the ground, legs splayed out. His chin sags on his torn dress shirt, blood crusted on the fabric. Derrick's suit jacket is gone. So is the gun from his waist holster. He taps his foot. A twinge of pain shoots up his ankle. Not broken; sprain, probably. The gun from his ankle strap is missing.

Derrick tries to move his hands. He can't. His wrists are cuffed and chained above his head.

The room is unremarkable. Gray tile floors. Gray ceiling. The wall across from Derrick boasts a thin rectangle window. If Derrick cranes his head, he can see the blackness of space. Stars glint in the distance. A ship drifts by at close range, preparing to dock.

"Took you long enough, pretty boy." Derrick turns, his neck is stiff.

Marcus is on the floor next to him, and his condition is no better. His dress shirt is ripped open to the stomach, and his guns are gone. Even in the low light, Derrick sees the bleeding knot on his forehead. A line of blood dries from a corner of his mouth.

Marcus spits to the side. "Got a tooth," he grumbles. "Bastards."

"Where are we?" Derrick's words rasp. How long have they been here? The last thing he remembers is the back room at Selection. It was a set up. Too many grunts to fight off.

"Your guess is as good as mine." Marcus cocks his head towards the far wall. "Door's over there. Can't get a read on the ID scanner. Gotta be on the same side as the loading docks. Ships coming in and out."

"Can't be right against it" Derrick muses. "We'd hear the PA."

"Heh. Portia was right, you're more than a sweet face." Marcus stretches. "So, what's our play, Corso? You're the tactics guy, right?"

Yeah, about that.

Now probably isn't the best time to fess up to not being Jace Corso. But yeah, Derrick Moss is not Jace Corso. It also probably isn't the best time to admit that this revenge plot was a little...under-thought? Premature?

Derrick did his research, that isn't the problem. He learned the life and times of Jace Corso inside and out. Trained with weapons and in hand-to-hand combat until he was as good as Jace. Better. Derrick obsessed over his studies, before and after the surgery. No detail too small, no stone left unturned.

Derrick's planning was fine. The problem is the bad taste in his mouth. The sinking feeling that he's missed something huge. Something like, maybe Marcus Boone isn't the guy Derrick is after. Maybe Marcus didn't kill his wife?

Derrick never should have hesitated. Now, he's thinking things; feeling things. Derrick is too tied up with the Raza crew, he's going to get himself in trouble. Worse trouble than he's in now. And this is already pretty bad.

"Corso?" Marcus frowns. "The hell's wrong with you?"

"Think I...got my bell rung..." Derrick swallows back the sourness rising in his throat.

"Well shit, don't sleep. You hear me, pretty boy? Hey... Hey! Corso! Eyes open!"

***

It was supposed to be a standard supply run. Independent zone, beyond the reach of the major corps. No activity in the area. Just a 'pick up and get moving.' Twenty-four hours, max.

"Your turn, Boone." Portia hands Marcus a tablet with the list. "Rations restock. The ammo will be from an in-between named Mad Dog."

Marcus raises a brow. "Mad Dog? Really?"

"Guess the cool names were taken." Portia glances up when Derrick enters the mess room. "Corso, you're going with."

Derrick stops in his tracks. He doesn't mind supply runs, usually. They're safer than most Raza missions. But a supply run alone with Boone is another story. "Isn't it Ryo's turn?" he asks.

"The prince is in his torture room, pleasuring himself with pointy objects." Marcus grins. "Go ask him." He tosses the tablet next to his breakfast plate. Dried crap and more dried crap.

Derrick sighs. No thanks to that.

"It's a short one," Portia assures. She pauses by Derrick on her way out. "Long haul to the mining planet. We need the cargo, _and_ we need you two on the same page."

The real Jace Corso's eyes would have lit up at any mention of the cash promised by the mining job. It's why Corso was the perfect target. Ferrous is as corrupt as a corporation gets, but they pay well for their competitive edge. Well enough to make a solo act like Corso play nice with other criminals, Marcus Boone among them.

Derrick feels queasy. From what he knows, the mining job will be a high casualty score. Innocent lives taken just to give Ferrous a nice, empty planet to settle. Derrick has only been on the Raza for a few months, but he's already done enough killing for this crew.

Everything will be worth it for Derrick's revenge, though. Right?

"Yeah, sure," Derrick says, but he makes it clear that he isn't happy. He drops on the seat next to Marcus at the mess table. 

Marcus greets him with his trademark smirk. "Come on, Corso, cheer up!" He claps hands on Derrick's shoulders. "Promise, I'm just as fun as I look." He snickers at Derrick's skepticism. "Look, we'll grab the goods early. Rest of the night, we knock back a few drinks. Pick up a redhead, two if the cash is right? Before you know it, we're back on Home Sweet Raza." Marcus picks up his breakfast tray and heads to the waste chute. "I mean really, what's the worst that could happen?"

***

"Think this is Mad Dog's crew?" Derrick wonders.

"Good guess." Marcus looks down at his empty belt holsters. "Shit, they got my babies."

Derrick may be starting to question Marcus' guilt, but Marcus' lack of sanity has never been in doubt. Grown men should not call their guns 'babies.' Or name them. They really, really should not name them.

Marcus squints at the window. "Pretty close to the edge here," he muses. "Maybe they're letting us stew before they dump us."

"No way," Derrick replies. "We're too valuable to waste."

Marcus snorts. "Can't always live off those million dollar looks, kid-"

"They'll ransom the Raza." Derrick ignores the 'looks' comment. "Go for money, or- or whatever supplies they need-"

"Right, and they'll get dick," Marcus cuts in.

Derrick scowls. "We have information, skills-"

Marcus sighs like he's bored. "Plenty of killers out there for the Raza to recruit. Money? Supplies? They ain't endless, kid. Nah," he drops his head back. "Raza'll turn down the demands. Then, they'll waste us."

"You don't know that," Derrick argues.

"Sure I do. I'd do the same damn thing."

"Yeah?" Derrick glares. "That's because you're an asshole." He talks through Marcus' bark of laughter. "Portia and Griff aren't like that. We're valuable to this crew."

"God, you're cute, know that?" Marcus chuckles. "And dumb as a box of rocks."

Derrick chews back the urge to headbutt him in the face. If only they were chained a little closer together. "Guess we'll just have to escape," he mutters.

Marcus lights up like a holiday, "Now you're talkin'."

***

It's been a long but uneventful afternoon by the time Derrick slides on a bar stool. They've been on-board the space station for five hours. No incidents so far. Ration pick ups went smoothly. The only task left is the ammo pull from Mad Dog. They've yet to receive instructions on the purchase. With no better action plan, the two decide on a pub at the far end of the market deck.

Derrick wants to avoid undue attention, but he's still miffed when Marcus plops on the seat next to him. Marcus' usual tavern routine involves schmoozing the hottest piece in the place. And, 9 times out of 10, getting smacked for being an ass. Not good for anonymity, but it would keep Marcus away from him.

Marcus raises two fingers for the bartender. "Whiskey blends. Straight, and a beer." The man behind the bar grumbles as he pours. Older gent, graying beard and thinning hair. He drops their glasses on the counter with an extra-forceful clank.

"We should have set a rendezvous point ahead of time," Derrick mutters.

"They don't work like that," Marcus says, like Derrick is stupid. He echoes the words with an amused glance. "Hell, _we_ don't work like that. Wanted criminals, announcing where we'll be in advance? Where's your head, Corso?"

Derrick can't deny his logic. But he hates the holier-than-thou smirk Marcus has on his face, and he's willing to push the issue to get rid of it. "It's not like we're broadcasting to the Galactic Authority."

"Best plans always get mucked up, you know that." Marcus rolls his eyes. "How the hell are you alive? Gotta be that face." He grins when the drinks come. "Never seen a thug cute as you, kid."

"I'm not a thug," Derrick mutters. As soon as the words slip out, Derrick realizes he's taken issue with the wrong part of the sentence.

Marcus laughs out loud and claps Derrick on the back. With a scowl, and a touch of embarrassment, Derrick watches Marcus gulp down his drink in one go. "Slow down," he hisses. "Pick up tonight, remember?"

Marcus smirks and salutes Derrick with one specific finger. "Worry about yourself. Game on, where I'm concerned."

Derrick isn't ready to drop the issue, but they're both distracted by the return of the bartender. "You here for Mad Dog?" the man grunts.

Derrick glances over his shoulder. No onlookers that he can see, just a collection of average-looking folks at sporadic tables. 

"Who wants to know?" Marcus demands.

"These are for you." The man slides two index cards across the counter. Black with silver, fancy script. Derrick opens his mouth to ask what they are, but the bartender steps away before he can.

He picks up his card and flips it around. One word is larger than the rest. "Selection," he reads. Underneath, a deck and time are listed. "'22:00, Dress For Success.' The hell's this?" Derrick flips the card over, but the back is blank.

Marcus snorts and tucks his card in his vest pocket. "We're getting our guns at a sex club."

"You're joking." Marcus raises a brow. Ok, not joking. Derrick frowns. "Why the hell would-"

"Cover, I guess. Or to fuck with us." Marcus shrugs. "Both?" He motions to the bartender and shakes his empty glass.

"Will our comms even work on the lower level?" Derrick drums fingers on the counter. "I don't like this. If they've got the place staked out, it could be a trap-"

"Untwist the undies, Corso." Marcus grins and raises his refilled glass. "Look on the bright side. We might score with the guns _and_ the locals tonight."

Derrick shakes his head. "I don't like this. We should comm the bridge-"

"You really need Mama Portia to clean up every mess?" Marcus sighs. "You don't live up to the hype at all, man."

"Yeah?" Derrick glowers. "Feeling's mutual."

"Do what you want," Marcus says, ignoring him. "I? Am sprucing up and getting double-hit tonight. I mean, no wonder this place is dead. Must be waiting for the party." He casts a dirty look at the rest of the bar. "Not one redhead. Unacceptable."

"What is it with you and the redheads?"

Marcus turns a skeptical eye on him. "Have you even _had_ sex before?"

Derrick scowls and slams his drink back in one go. He winces as it goes down. But the burn is fifty times more appealing than dealing with present company. He clears his throat harder than usual.

Marcus smirks his approval. "That's what I thought."

***

Derrick loses track of time. Easy up here; the blackness of space never changes. Stars are littered in their fixed coordinates. Every cycle of years, one might burn out. Light becomes a black hole, an 'avoid' red X on a cruiser's Nav system. But, on the whole, this is the galaxy Derrick has known since he was born. It's the one he'll know until the end of his days.

He wanted better for it before. Donated to those less fortunate, assisted charities with his father's inheritance. It was a good life. A hopeful life.

Maybe Derrick thought he could stay sheltered if he worked hard enough. The news streams on GNN couldn't touch him in the business world. Oppression and uprising? Murderers, thieves, mercs-for-hire? Seemed like a different galaxy from the one Derrick lived in.

Then, Catherine died, and Derrick realized he was a fool all along.

The funny part? Some days, Derrick still thinks he's doing the right thing. He's better than the criminals on the Raza. They kill for greed, Derrick will kill to right a wrong. It's not the same thing.

Derrick glances at Marcus slumped beside him. Marcus has managed to doze, head at an awkward angle. There is a worrisome rasp to his exhales, a low-buried rattle blowing from his chapped lips.

How long have they been in here? Almost twenty-four hours?

Derrick's head is killing him. He doesn't need to see the cut on his temple to know it's crusted with blood. Derrick swallows back nausea. He's so thirsty; he swallows air to try to compensate.

Marcus comes to with dry, body-heaving hacks. "How long was I out?" He grunts, sounding nothing like his usual, cocky bastard self.

Derrick closes his eyes - only to snap them back open at a sudden growl. "Hey, eyes open!"

Derrick glares. "Don't know how long you were out," he mutters. "Lost track of time."

"Mm." Strange, Marcus accepts the answer without arguing further. He wets his mouth with a swipe of his tongue. "Forget the air chute. Maybe they already scrammed. Left us here to starve."

"Doesn't sound like your type. They tie things up neater." Derrick crosses back over his words. He cringes. "I mean - the type you all run into. Raza's fan base."

Marcus doesn't catch the slip. He's too busy scowling. "Bet Calchek's in on this."

Derrick raises a brow. "What?"

"You've seen the guy," Marcus says. "Lines up the deals, yeah, but he's all-for-one when the stove gets hot. Grade A scumbag." Derrick's brow shoots higher. Marcus frowns. "What? I can't have standards?" He coughs against a shoulder.

Derrick sighs. Could Calchek be double-crossing them? Sure, he's a low-life - but so are the rest of Raza's crew. Derrick doesn't trust anyone. Especially not Marcus. Maybe.

"You all right?" Derrick asks. He isn't sure why he does, he just...

"Shut up." Marcus grumbles. He strains to wipe his mouth on a shoulder. So much for his fancy dress shirt. "I'm not the one with the damn concussion."

"Think I'm ok," Derrick says. "Head just hurts, I guess. I need a drink. Water preferably, but I'm not picky at this point."

Marcus snickers. "You n' me both, kid. God, I'd go for another whiskey blend right now. Or ten."

"And a redhead?"

Marcus meets his amused look with a grin. "Nah," he replies. "Brunette. If I'm gonna die, better go out with class."

***

It's just after 16:00 when they exit the tavern, after one too many drinks for the early hour. Derrick walks straight, Marcus stumbles a bit. His cheek is a fresh pink, thanks to a smack from a blonde at the bar. But rejection hasn't ruined Marcus' good mood. He slings an arm over Derrick's shoulders.

Derrick stiffens when Marcus' arm tightens, fist bumping his chest in a show of camaraderie. "You sure you're good for tonight?" Derrick grumbles. "Do I need to call Griff?"

Marcus snorts. "Really? That dude's a teddy bear. Bring Tiny's sweet ass to a game like Selection, see how that goes."

Derrick stops. "Game? I thought you said it was a club."

"It is," Marcus says. "It's also a game. Sort of."

Screw mission and cover, Derrick is a breath away from slugging him.

"It's just a hopped up dating game," Marcus explains. "You get these...wrist bands. I've only been once, and I didn't even use the thing. No one up to my standards." He waggles his brows.

Derrick rolls his eyes. "So, it's some stupid matchmaking shtick."

"Yep. You find someone you dig and light it up. Should be ample room for sealing the deal on-site. What happens behind closed doors stays there. Or," he shrugs, "who knows, you might find your soul mate. Live happily ever after. What do you say, pretty boy?" He grins and nudges Derrick with a joking elbow. "Might get ammo and a bride tonight."

Derrick clenches his fists. "My room," he mutters, and it hasn't come soon enough. Marcus is getting too comfortable; Derrick might be too.

Derrick retreats towards his door, digging in his pocket for his key card. He freezes when Marcus' hand flattens next to him on the metal panel. They fit close together, glaring nose-to-nose.

"The hell's your problem?" Derrick demands. With his hand by his waist, it won't be hard to get his gun if he has to. The question is, can Derrick draw faster than Marcus? Even with a few drinks, Marcus is quick on the trigger. It's what he's known for - hot head, hotter hand. There's a reason why he's one of the top mercs-for-hire in the galaxy.

After a moment, Derrick eases his hand off the holster. This isn't an attack. It's a size-up.

Marcus takes his time looking Derrick over. He grins, teeth sliding over his lip. Derrick keeps up his warning glare, but his eyes stray to Marcus' mouth. That bottom lip wet by a swipe of his tongue.

"Pick you up at 23:00." Marcus leans to murmur close to Derrick's ear. "Wear something nice."

Derrick shoves him off and gets his key. He's just through the open door when he hears Marcus laughing. "You've got no sense of humor, Corso-"

Derrick slams his fist down on the entrance panel, and the door slides shut. A muffled shout rumbles from the other side. "Come on, man, you're not pissed, are ya?" Finally alone, Derrick can tune him out. He's furious, breathing hard. His pulse races in his chest.

***

Marcus is a dick, and that's good. It's easier when he's a dick.

It's not as easy when he looks as godawful as he does now. Marcus has broken out in a sweat, and he's wheezing on every exhale. His rough breathing is all the proof Derrick needs. "Air's getting thin," he mutters.

"Uh-huh." Marcus voice is weirdly quiet. But Derrick sees his eyes slicing back and forth, calculating. Even now, Marcus is combing over the facts. Their current predicament and past history. Grasping at straws, piecing together a plan for their escape.

"You ok?" Marcus asks. It startles Derrick, makes him jump in his chains. "Your head." 

"Yeah." It's strange for Marcus to care. Marcus isn't supposed to care about anyone.

Marcus nods. "Good. When we bust out, I can't have you loopy." He tips his chin back and closes his eyes.

"You've...got a plan then?"

"Can't have you loopy," Marcus repeats. His voice is gravel, breaking on a tired cough. Doesn't sound good at all.

Derrick frowns. It's better for both of them when Marcus is an asshole. Derrick really, really needs him to be an asshole.

***

Derrick finds Marcus in the vault on the ship one night. It's not unusual for the crew to go in and out on occasion. Rations and ammo are stored or pulled as needed. But Derrick never lingered long enough to dig under the cases. Wasn't what he was on-board for. Why would there be a stasis pod stashed in a vault, anyway?

But it's there, and Marcus hovers over it, hand flat on the glass. A woman lies inside, unconscious. Derrick doesn't recognize her.

He falters at the entrance. "I, um... It was open-"

"It's fine. The others know too." Marcus is missing the usual glint in his eyes. All attention is focused on the pale face sleeping on the other side of the glass.

Derrick comes up behind him. "Who is she?"

"Sarah," Marcus replies. "She..." He trails off, a thumb glossing over the pod.

"Is she sick?"

Marcus nods. "Met her on a mining planet. Mining...cerulean for the corps. Uprising failed, lots of people died. They were getting sick. Bad air. You know how it goes."

Derrick doesn't 'know how it goes.' It's not that he doesn't get the injustices brought against the poor colonies. Corporations always drain local resources in the name of galactic expansion. It's been going on forever, and the uprisings haven't changed a thing.

__But Derrick doesn't get what any of this has to do with Marcus. Marcus isn't exactly a heart-first kind of guy._ _

__"She means something to you."_ _

__"She believed in me. Crazy, right?" Marcus flashes a sour smile. "All the shit we've done... Really, what chance do we have of going straight? Or just, doing the right thing once in awhile? Not like we're heroes, right?"_ _

__Derrick is caught off-guard. It's not just the sentiment, it's the look Marcus is giving him. Expectant, breath held, like he wants Derrick to argue with him. Marcus wants to hear that he's wrong, that they _can_ be good people. They _can_ do the right thing when it matters.__

Derrick shakes his head. "You're right," he manages. "That life's not for us."

__"Exactly." Marcus doesn't sound surprised, but he's clearly disappointed. The assessment is accepted with a wry chuckle._ _

__"You brought her here though," Derrick adds quickly, trying to spin a positive. "With you. I mean, you did your best. That's something?"_ _

__"Yeah," Marcus replies. He traces a hand over the pod. "Like you said, kid. That life's not for us."_ _

__***_ _

__Derrick is all in black when he enters Selection. Black jeans, black shirt, black suit jacket._ _

__He and Marcus go on their own. Easier to scope the crowd, they decide. Less chance for them to be jumped at once.__

Plus, it's better not to go to a sex club together. Going in together might give people ideas? Marcus shrugged at the possibility, but Derrick was quick to avoid it. He's still processing their earlier confrontation. 

__Derrick hands his card to the grunt at the door. Big guy, stands head and shoulders above Derrick. He shines a black light over the back of Derrick's invitation. Derrick thought this side was blank. But under the special lighting, hidden script flashes. Some code starting with an 'A.' It means nothing to Derrick._ _

__Whatever the code is, it seems to work in Derrick's favor. "Hand," the doorman says._ _

__"What?"_ _

__The doorman peels his sleeve back and slaps a wristwatch-looking device into place. Black band, black-bordered screen at the top of the wrist. Basic display front, thin as an ID card._ _

__"Face to face," the doorman says. He puts his empty wrist up to Derrick's device as an example. "See the droids for the private rooms. Have fun." The last part is said with a grin that shows too many teeth for Derrick's liking._ _

__"Yeah, ok." Derrick doesn't plan to touch the private rooms with a ten foot pole. But he forces a smile to show he gets it._ _

__The doorman waves him in. Derrick crosses inside, through a hallway shrouded in black curtains. He can already hear, and feel, the music. A growing throb shivers beneath his feet._ _

__He rounds the corner from the entrance. Immediately, he is showered in red. Red up lighting, down lighting, flames roaring in fireplaces. The place is already packed, a mass of tight-cut suits and short skirts. Marcus was right about the trendier crowd avoiding the bar during the day. The attendees tonight are hard not to stare at. Elite, even by Derrick's wealth-privileged standards.__

Random, for a clearly rich crowd to be on a space hub in the middle of nowhere. There's obviously more going on in this place than the occasional ammo deal. Derrick feels a pang of unease. Maybe he should have commed Portia, just to be safe? 

No. Corso never would have called the bridge on a bad feeling. Derrick will stick to the plan. Everything will be fine.

__Black cubed bars stand along the back walls, between black couches and stripper poles. The poles are occupied, men and women in varying stages of undress. Androids man the drinks, glossed in black patent leather with luscious smiles to match. Black star tattoos mark their temples._ _

As Derrick steps through the crowd, he feels the eyes immediately. Male. Female. Long gazes from head to toe.

A hand stops him, a woman with a long ponytail and leopard-print dress. She makes no secret about where her eyes stray. A lick of plump, pink lips. "Maybe later." She unhooks her nails and continues on.

__Beautiful couples occupy the couches; a few already glow at the wrists. Derrick focuses on one, a man and a woman cozied on a loveseat. Her legs are crossed at the ankles, long gold heels clanking together. The man hovers, a hand moving up her thigh. His wrist band glows a dim blue. Hers does the same, radiating from the hand holding her glass of bubbly-something._ _

__A nearby couple on the wall flashes purple. Another, by a fireplace, curls together in pink. Derrick would wonder how the colors are picked. But he doesn't, because his attention fixes on three men approaching from the other side of the room. If Derrick didn't know better, he would say they were making a beeline for... Shit._ _

__Derrick turns around. From the way he came, another three men close in, just as muscle-bound and serious. Either Derrick's look is popular, or...yeah, no. Set up. Total set up._ _

__The exit is too far for Derrick to make a break. Maybe there's another way out through the back rooms? Derrick looks around blindly. He needs a distraction, something to mix him into the crowd until he comes up with a better plan.__

Derrick starts for the closest bar, but the line is backed up. Maybe he can force his wrist with someone, buy himself a few minutes? But colored wrists light all around him. Couples kissing and touching, oblivious. Derrick swallows, craning for the back rooms. 

__"Just the man I was looking for."_ _

__Derrick jolts at the hand that claps on his shoulder. A face buries against his neck, liquor-wet mouth strolling up his jaw. Derrick drops his head back instinctively. "What the hell are you-"_ _

__"Go with it." Derrick feels Marcus' hiss more than he hears it. Dazed, Derrick catches the dull clank of plastic meeting plastic. Their bands activate, glowing emerald green._ _

__"Hm." An amused snort. "Merry Christmas, kid." Marcus covers Derrick's mouth with his._ _

__Derrick starts to pull back, but the hand on his shoulder slides to his neck. Fingers drum against the base of his scalp. The 'Go with it' sentiment is tapped repeatedly, until Derrick stops trying to move._ _

__With a slanted eye, Derrick notes the approachers veering off. The trios pass each other, crossing to opposite sides of the room._ _

__"Couch," Marcus mutters. He urges Derrick backwards._ _

__Derrick watches the trios disperse. When one turns a glare back, Derrick closes his eyes, trusting Marcus to lead him to the far wall. He opens his mouth to mumble a reply, but his open lips find tongue instead. Marcus is...kind of over-selling, isn't he?_ _

__Derrick sighs along - all for show, he tells himself. His legs bump vinyl, and he lets himself go down, sprawling into the cushions as Marcus leans over him. Fingers tighten in his hair. Marcus pulls his head back to run his mouth up Derrick's throat. Back to his ear. "We're so fucked," Marcus whispers._ _

__"Six at least," Derrick murmurs. He turns towards Marcus. The kiss-swollen mouth surprises him. It takes too long for Derrick to catch himself licking his own lips sympathetically. "Exit's too far," he adds, trying to save face._ _

__"Back rooms?" Marcus wonders. "Might not have an exit though." Derrick cringes, they're both on the same page. He'd hoped Marcus would have a better idea. Marcus is the professional at this stuff, after all._ _

__Marcus grunts a low, "Damn it." His thumb idly crosses Derrick's temple. After a moment, Marcus offers a strange quirk of his lips and shifts down to kiss him again. Derrick tries to focus on how they can make it out of here. Not on how Marcus feels draped over him. One hand is still in his hair. The other follows the line of buttons on Derrick's shirt._ _

__"You got Lulu and Pip?" Derrick wonders. His own gun is holstered at his waist, and he has his spare around his ankle. The lack of weapon checks or metal detectors should have been a warning sign. But hey, at least it worked in their favor._ _

__Despite the dire straights, Marcus actually laughs. The sound, and smile, are too close to Derrick's mouth. Derrick sucks in a breath before he can stop himself._ _

__"You've got my babies memorized?" Marcus plucks Derrick's lip with a teasing thumb. "I'm touched, pretty boy."_ _

___Focus_ , Derrick reminds himself weakly. "If there's no exit in the back, we might have to shoot our way out."_ _

__Marcus grins. "Love it when you talk dirty to me, Corso."_ _

__"God, shut up," Derrick mutters. He rolls his eyes towards the nearest bar. "How do we get a room?"_ _

__***_ _

__In hindsight, it still seems like their best play. Other than not going to the damn club at all.__

How were they supposed to know the operation stretched so large? That they would would be guided to a back room already occupied by six goons? All 6'3" or taller, built like log cabins. Derrick and Marcus held their own for awhile. Then, something metal clocked Derrick from behind. He dropped and went dark. 

__A beep catches his attention, something high-pitched and close. Derrick turns just in time to see the sensor on their cell's door blink from red to green._ _

__"Hey," Derrick hisses. Marcus snaps awake as the door slides open._ _

__Three men enter. Derrick recognizes two from the scrum. At least 300 pounds each, all muscle and height. The third is someone Derrick doesn't recognize. A polished type, slicked salt-and-pepper hair. One of his teeth is gold._ _

__"Jace Corso and Marcus Boone." The man claps his hands in a feigned show of delight._ _

__"Let me guess." Derrick squints. "Mad Dog?"_ _

__"A concerned citizen," he replies. "Someone who values good business-"_ _

__"Could've fooled us," Marcus mutters._ _

__"I set up a reasonable meeting in our partner's venue." Mad Dog bends in front of the two, hands on his knees. A diamond-crusted chain dangles from his neck. "Had I known this deal would backfire and threaten the safety of his patrons-"_ _

__"You weren't going to sell to us from the start," Derrick accuses. "It was a set up."_ _

__"Smart, this one," Mad Dog says. He wags a pleased finger at Derrick. "Let's just say, your past and present ops have involved parties with...ties...to myself." He shrugs. "A man has to protect his investments. As men of business, I'm sure you understand."_ _

__"Raza'll smoke you when they catch on," Marcus says.__

Derrick eyes him. So much for the abandonment theory. 

__Mad Dog tsks as he straightens. "Unless we get what we're here for, you'll be off this ship long before your friends find you. If they even care. Awful lot of killers-for-hire out there. You think you're the only one capable of murdering a billionaire's wife, Mr. Boone?"_ _

__Marcus snorts. "Wasn't me, asshole. Nice job on the research."_ _

__"It wasn't..." The words slip out before Derrick can force his mouth shut._ _

__Marcus either doesn't hear Derrick or chooses to ignore him. He keeps his eyes trained on their captor. "Like you said, Raza's got other options. So do we. You let us off easy, I'm sure we can work out some kind of arrangement."_ _

__"Yes well, I'd be amenable to that type of deal, Mr. Boone." Mad Dog folds his arms. "But you and Mr. Corso caused quite the ruckus at Selection. May have cost my business partner dearly. Lost profits don't come with a 'let you off easy' price tag, I'm afraid." He nods at Derrick. "Start with him."_ _

__One of the two guards kneels in front of Derrick. He goes into his pocket and comes out with a switch blade. Good size for a pocket knife, the width of two thumbs. He lifts the blade to Derrick's face, the point nicking the edge of his forehead. Derrick pulls at his chains. They don't give.__

What's he supposed to do? 

__In an instant, Derrick is no longer Jace Corso. He's Derrick Moss, CEO of CoreLactic Industries. His wife was murdered two years ago. He's here on a revenge plot against a man who...didn't...kill his wife. And he's about to die. Derrick is about to die for information he doesn't have. Impersonating a known criminal. Targeting the wrong man. All of this, for nothing. Derrick is about to die for _nothing_._ _

__He twists in his bonds again, grimacing with emotions Jace Corso would never show. Fear. Panic. Wild-eyed and desperate, Derrick turns towards Marcus. The first bead of blood trickles down his face._ _

__"He doesn't know anything." It's Marcus talking, Marcus jolting straighter in his chains._ _

__Mad Dog hums amusement. "Sounds like what you say when the person you're protecting _knows_ something-"_ _

__"We recruited Corso for the Ferrous op," Marcus counters. "If you knew we'd be here, you know that too. You want at someone?" He smirks. "Bring it on, big boy."_ _

__"That so." Mad Dog nods at his second guard. The man bends next to Marcus and reaches into his pocket. No blade this time. A master key. He unlocks Marcus' right wrist first, then the left._ _

__Marcus goes for him as soon as his hands are free. Knocks the guy on his ass, impressive with his body still bound. The guard in front of Derrick moves quicker than his size implies. He clubs Marcus in the back, takes his wind out and pins him on his stomach. The second guard unlocks his lower half._ _

__"What are you..." Derrick stares._ _

__"All good, kid." Marcus grins at him as he's dragged across the room. "Got it under control."_ _

__Mad Dog sighs, a smile playing at his lips. "Boys?"_ _

__The punishment starts. Stiff boots to the gut. Punches to the face. Marcus in the middle, coughing and folded up. Trying to ward off the blows. Another kick. A crunch of...something. Marcus hisses; Derrick winces. He pulls at his own locks. It's hopeless, the chains are fixed._ _

__Until he sees the knife on the ground. The knife the ringleader is going for._ _

__Derrick acts without thinking. His feet kick out as far as the chains will allow. A bark of pain shoots from his bad ankle, but the force still takes out Mad Dog's legs. He stumbles, enough time for Derrick to kick the knife across the floor. "Boone!" Derrick shouts, but he doesn't need to._ _

__Marcus knows, somehow. He's already rolling for the knife. Jabbing it in one guard's thigh. He scrambles at the man's belt. One hand comes away with the master key. The other, with a gun._ _

__"Jace!" Marcus calls, but he doesn't need to either. Derrick shifts his weight, pinning the key under him. He watches the gun fire. Once, twice, guard and Mad Dog go down, blood ruining the floor tiles._ _

__The last guard flails with the knife in his thigh. He goes still with Marcus' last shot.__

"Fuck!" Marcus shouts. Derrick can't tell if he's excited, angry, or both. Marcus wobbles to Derrick's side. He fishes the key out from under his leg and makes quick work of unlatching him. 

__"Key card," Derrick hisses. He starts over to the fallen guards, but - yeah, his ankle is worse than he thought. He hisses, dragging his foot behind until he gets close enough to dig the card out from the guard's pocket.__

His arm is draped around Marcus' shoulders before he registers Marcus coming back for him. "We gotta move," Marcus says. He holds one gun at the ready. Another gun, he shoves at Derrick.

Derrick aims it as best he can with his leg faltering behind him. The door flies open with the swipe of the key card. The other side of the door is empty, but footsteps are approaching quickly. 

__"We're on the lower level," Derrick notes, keeping his voice down. He tightens his arm around Marcus' shoulders, urging him down the left hall. "Cargo bay."_ _

__"God, you're smarter than you look sometimes." For a back-handed compliment, Marcus sounds awfully impressed._ _

__They're a slow-moving mess. Derrick pants through every limped step. But he tries not to put too much of his weight on Marcus. Marcus is folding more by the second. He keeps an arm wound around Derrick's waist for support. The other hand flattens protectively against his ribs. Broken, have to be._ _

__Rest finally comes behind a large set of crates in the cargo hold. It's a wide room, but the different layers of boxes and supplies make it as good a hiding spot as any. Derrick slips to sit on the floor, chewing his cheek to keep his grunt of pain to himself._ _

__A glance finds Marcus undoing the remaining buttons of his shredded dress shirt. His ribs are a sickly purple and yellow._ _

__"That your awesome plan?" Derrick hisses. "Get the shit kicked out of you, and maybe one of them would be stupid enough to leave a knife on the floor?"_ _

__Marcus peeks over the crates to assure that they're still alone. But Derrick can see the smirk on his face. "Worked, didn't it? Ah! Damn it." He whistles out a breath and clutches his midsection. "Docking station can't be far. We can make it."_ _

__"What if we can't?" Derrick glares around an edge of the crates. Muted footsteps, but not coming this way. Yet._ _

__"We can," Marcus says. "I got this." Marcus has everything, as far as he's concerned. He's cocky as hell, and it's going to get him killed.__

Only, this time, Marcus' boast comes out quieter. Something more like reassurance. For Derrick, not for himself.

Derrick shakes his head. He's not thinking about this now. Or his panic as the knife inched towards him. Or the even greater panic as this idiot got the hell beaten out of him.

__Derrick forces himself back to his feet, a grunt as he shifts his weight onto his good leg. He looks at Marcus. "That...billionaire's wife. Moss. That wasn't you?"_ _

__"Still on that?" Marcus rolls his eyes. "Hit went down right after the deal on Sarah's planet. Didn't make my team's rendezvous. I was holed up for a few months. All the shit going down, it looked like I dropped the job to help with the uprising, you know?"_ _

__"The G.A. framed you..."_ _

__Marcus grins. "What, like the G.A.'s never framed you for shit? It's how a guy knows he's making it in this biz!"__

Derrick stays quiet. He should make up a good Corso lie, but he can't. His mind goes numb. 

Two years of this. Two years. What the hell does he do now?

__Marcus raises a brow. His expression wars between kidding and confusion. "Why would I knock off some rich guy's wife? Rich people don't make good enemies, Corso." He holds out a hand. "Ah well, the G.A. loves a good show. Can we go?"_ _

__"Yeah," Derrick says. Yeah._ _

__He slings his arm over Marcus' shoulders. The coast is clear, for now. Guns drawn, they make a break for it._ _

__***_ _

__The Android works her magic in the med bay - "Best robot ever!" Marcus enthuses. He hates robots._ _

__After the Android leaves for the bridge, Portia assesses their damage personally. She raises a brow at the torn remains of their fancy club-wear. Other than a smirk, she doesn't comment. "So, no guns?"_ _

__"No guns," Derrick says. "He wanted information."_ _

__"Seemed awful interested in the mining job," Marcus mutters. "Maybe getting something under the table from a Ferrous rival."_ _

__Portia tilts her head. "Mikkei, you think?"_ _

__"Who knows?" Marcus grits his teeth. "Hey, why don't we check with Calchek? He set the whole thing up. Bet he knows a little something about our buddy Mad Dog's allegiances. ...Heh, former allegiances."_ _

__"We wasted him," Derrick adds. He flashes a proud smile that, a few months ago, he never would have been capable of faking. Like Derrick is now. He's faking, right?_ _

__"Look, I don't trust Calchek any more than you do," Portia says. "But it looks bad for us if we dump him now. It's not the time. Too many people still gunning for us."_ _

__Derrick catches Marcus' wince when he stretches. "Fine. Strength in numbers," Marcus hisses. "You got it, chief."_ _

__Portia pats their shoulders and heads for the door. "Get some rest. You both look like shit."_ _

__"Hey, thanks," Derrick calls, but she's already gone._ _

__"Rest works for me." Marcus slides off his examining table. A hand flies to his ribs as he steadies on his feet. "This sucks."_ _

__Derrick has never had cracked ribs. But he's pretty sure Jace Corso would have. So he forces a smile as he picks up his crutches. "No argument here."_ _

__They start down the hall together. It's a sad post-job march: Derrick limping on his crutches, Marcus hunched over. As they walk, Derrick can't help his glances to the side. Despite the pain, Marcus' expression stays pleasant. One eye is swollen, and a corner of his mouth is bruised. Derrick got off easier, only the bandaged knot on one temple and a little cut on the other to contend with._ _

__"You could have gotten yourself killed, you know," Derrick says._ _

__His words draw a raised brow. "And?"_ _

__"And." Derrick frowns. He shouldn't care about Marcus getting killed. Jace Corso definitely wouldn't have. "You could have gotten _us_ killed," Derrick amends._ _

__"Didn't though - oh, thank god." Marcus sighs loudly when they reach his quarters. "My bed is going to feel like a fucking _dream_." He punches his combination onto his key pad. The door to his quarters lifts. From the entrance way, Derrick sees that the back wall of his bedroom is lined with guns. The big one, Bubba, has the prized spot in the middle of the display._ _

__Marcus stumbles inside. He shrugs off his open shirt, wincing and grumbling. Derrick lingers in the doorway. He watches the flex of Marcus' back, spine arching to the edge of the cloth bandages._ _

__Marcus' surprise is visible when he turns around and finds that Derrick hasn't left. "You coming or going, stumpy?" he asks._ _

__Derrick should be going. But._ _

__He carefully limps down into Marcus' room. Holding himself on his crutches, he looks around. The guns, the made bed, the locked computer screen on his desk. A pile of green protein bars next to the keypad._ _

__Marcus smirks beside him. "Tiny keeps swiping 'em, damn lug. Had to stash some for myself."_ _

__"Makes sense," Derrick says, even though it doesn't. It's selfish and inconsiderate, everything Marcus Boone is in spades._ _

__Derrick reaches back for the 'Close Door' button. The panel slides shut behind him._ _

__Marcus raises a brow. "You ok, kid?"_ _

__If Marcus said anything else, Derrick might have been able to leave. Marcus may not be a wife-killer, but he's still a murderer and an asshole, only looking out for himself. And Sarah. And now Derrick...who he thinks is Jace Corso._ _

__But the dick has to ask if Derrick is ok. Right when Derrick needs him to be an ass the most.__

Derrick sets his crutches against the wall and hobbles over. 

__"Hey, what-" Marcus' words dry when Derrick grabs his face between his hands. It's a lapse, when Derrick kisses him. Just a quick, weak thing._ _

__Marcus freezes under him. He grabs Derrick's wrists as if he wants to force his hands off. But Marcus doesn't. His hands slide down Derrick's arms instead, settling in the crooks of his elbows. A snort of amusement is stifled between their lips._ _

__Derrick leans into him as Marcus starts to part his lips. Marcus hisses abruptly, covering the lapse on a chuckle, "Easy - that punk kicked my face."_ _

__Derrick sighs. But he tilts his head, away from the bruised side of Marcus' mouth. The action draws a snicker and arms looped around his waist. This is crazy and so many shades of wrong. But Marcus feels good and...safe...and Derrick feels himself fitting against his body._ _

__"Didn't get enough of me at Selection, huh?" Marcus' eyes glint, bruised mouth turned up in a smirk._ _

__"You're a mess," Derrick says. His words are on the right track, but his body refuses to cooperate with the sentiment. His tongue darts out, tasting Marcus on his lips. The flavor makes his eyes stray to Marcus' mouth. The bottom lip is swollen and discolored. But still awfully inviting._ _

__"This a pity fuck, then?" Marcus asks. He's wrong again, and Derrick opens his mouth to say so. But his brain shuts off when he meets Marcus' eyes, dark and way-too-focused on him. Marcus cocks his head, something dangerous in his smile. "Hey, I'll take it."__

__Derrick grunts surprise when he's shoved down. His back hits Marcus' mattress clean enough, but he still feels his wrapped ankle bark its disapproval. "Watch it," he grumbles._ _

__Marcus works his way on top of him. A little slow and ginger with the bandages around his ribs. But he makes it to his side and combs a hand through Derrick's hair. "Sorry," Marcus says, definitely not sounding sorry. "I'll make it up to you."_ _

__Derrick tips his head back and curls a welcoming finger under Marcus' chin. The action is nothing like Jace Corso. It's not even like himself._ _

__The gesture clearly startles Marcus. His smile is small and weird. Nothing like Marcus Boone. "You got it, Jace," he says.__

Derrick means to ask what he's got. But Marcus kisses him again before he can. Derrick nods towards Marcus. He lets himself forget. 

__*The End*_ _


End file.
